


Of the barren peaks

by phantomreviewer



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Jehan is a badass, M/M, Rioting and police brutality, Unrequited Love, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-26
Updated: 2013-02-26
Packaged: 2017-12-03 17:17:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,614
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/700741
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/phantomreviewer/pseuds/phantomreviewer
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Heaving throngs of people push past set pathways and orders and bring about chaos, paint is splattering the sides of buildings in slogans of anarchy and freedom combined and a few have armed themselves with sticks and stones, waiting for the hidden orders to come from within in mount the attack.</p>
<p>The protest has become savage. </p>
<p>A wild living thing that wants to tear up the pavement with its fingernails.</p>
<p>And Les Amis are right in the centre of it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Of the barren peaks

**Author's Note:**

> I’ve never met a character I loved that I didn’t want to get beaten up bloody.  
> Nitty, gritty modern AU with violence and street riots, just because.
> 
> _Will you give all you can give_   
> _So that our banner may advance?_   
> _Some will fall and some will live_   
> _Will you stand up and take your chance?_   
> _The blood of the martyrs_   
> _Will water the meadows of France!_

The streets of Paris are alight, although thankfully not literally. Not yet anyway. 

Heaving throngs of people push past set pathways and orders and bring about chaos, paint is splattering the sides of buildings in slogans of anarchy and freedom combined and a few have armed themselves with sticks and stones, waiting for the hidden orders to come from within in mount the attack.

The protest has become savage. 

A wild living thing that wants to tear up the pavement with its fingernails.

And Les Amis are right in the centre of it. Most of them are covering their faces, scarfs wound tightly around them or hats pulled low over their eyes, but Enjolras has pulled his red bandana down to cradle his throat so that people can hear his voice as he shouts for liberation, for justice and for an end to the atrocities performed in the name of the citizens. But of course, while this means that his supporters can hear his voice, the police can see his face.

Grantaire’s half-arsed attempt at disguise is to pull up his hood, zip his jacket to his neck and tuck his hands into his pockets. Grantaire is a born loiterer and he tries to make himself look as unobtrusive as it is possible to look in the bowels of a riot.

With a shining beacon like Enjolras at the helm it’s easy for dull, ugly Grantaire to slip unnoticed into the proceedings.

The streets are a heaving mass of people, and the group that Grantaire has managed to attach himself too- never too far from Enjolras’ side, he can’t help himself- has barely escaped being kettled, Grantaire can only watch, with cynical red-rimmed eyes, feeling far too sober for this. He’s already seen Jehan arrested, head held proud even with his hands wrenched behind his back and clothes ripped, still singing out for liberty as he was thrown roughly to the ground and kicking the police who picked him up against and tossed him by the hair into waiting police vans.

The protest is over, before it has even begun. Violence is spreading, and Enjolras can shout his message to the winds but the nature of people has gone too far towards Hobbes for Enjolras to claw back from the brink.

He doesn’t stop fighting, fist raised to the sky and hair flaming as he shouts.

Half of Les Amis are still fighting, throwing rocks, shouting insults at the police through their face coverings. There stands a wall of police riot shields between the seething crowd and Enjolras and his supports and Grantaire can recognise glimpses of his friends on the other side of the police barrier. He can see Bahorel standing as a fixed point like it would take forces of nature to move him, Éponine shielding her baby brother with her own body with blood trickling down her temple, can see Joly with the hastily hand written “Medic” written in sharpie on the back of his shirt. It’s probably bleeding into his skin. But on this side of the barrier, with the police standing weary, ready to pounce, he can only recognise Enjolras, everyone else has their face covered or are strangers to him.

Despite the futility of the day, Enjolras still stands atop a bench and calls out eloquent support for liberty and for the people. But as Enjolras looks towards the horizon of his dawning new world the police are approaching, with hands reaching. They want him to stop talking, that much is evident. To be honest with himself Grantaire would also quite like for Enjolras to shut up but that isn’t something that he’s ever been able to manage. 

But the approaching police have truncheons and when Grantaire sees the butt of a taser he acts without thinking.

He is standing as unobtrusively as he can in the middle of the violent protest, hunched by the wall of police shields, he looks harmless. Muttering under his breath Grantaire taps the shoulder of the nearest policeman- barely older than Grantaire himself from the looks of him-, part of the human barricade between the enclosed rioters and those beyond.

“Sorry mate.”

And punches him in the face.

Grantaire had once been good at boxing. He’d once been good at many things, but in being so they had lost their appeal, it had been so boring. Regardless, he knows how to pull the punch, but he knows that won’t matter. Acting on instinct never did anyone any good, let alone himself but at least the approaching police have turned at the commotion.

While Grantaire had in the abstract suspected that the oncoming police would descend on him, that thought is so very different from the reality. His hand in twitching slack fist convulsing and Grantaire can feel the tendons of his neck shaking against the cold burning pressure set against them. No matter how hard he breathes there’s no air getting into his lungs, and he can feel himself falling still wrapped in the agonizing electric net beneath his skin. It reminds Grantaire of the time that he’d grabbed an electric fence because Courfeyrac had dared him to; expect it’s so much worse than that. The pain is charging through him, and time has lost meaning, nothing means anything anymore and he’s aware that he’s screaming. He is able to make agonised cries, like a wounded animal, and Grantaire isn’t in control of his arms, and they’re twitching and his legs feel as though they’ve given way already, and his screaming reverberates around and within the electricity in his bones until Grantaire doesn’t feel like he can even be human any more. And the ground suddenly feels so very close, and bile rises up in his throat, and he’s going to vomit and oh god, he’s going to die at this ridiculous protest- he can hear voices calling out for him- but he can barely make them out over the beating of his blood in his ears and everything is too much-

And then, for a second everything is calm and quiet. His head feels light and there’s a curious sensation as though he could float away without the hands clasped around his wrists to keep him from floating away.

Then he registers where he is and the world comes flooding back into noisy, terrible focus.

The fingers digging into the flesh of his wrist are the only things keeping Grantaire from plunging face first onto the dirty pavement beneath them and they bite at his skin as angry words are hissed into his ear and his arms are shoved roughly behind his back. There’s something binding them together, and it doesn’t feel like handcuffs, but Grantaire can’t work out what they’re using. It hardly matters. He can feel the rough straps of his backpack against his wrists. There’s a couple of cans of spray paint and a hipflask in there, and in this environment that’s probably enough to be arrested for twice-over, even if he hadn’t just punched an officer of the law in the face. They don’t make any effort to remove his backpack instead tying his arms uncomfortably around it.

The next second a hand has closed itself around the fabric of Grantaire’s jacket and the hood is yanked down so hard that Grantaire can feel hair ripped from his scalp. And then finally, he’s falling, pushed to the ground with nothing to cradle his fall as he scrapes his chin on the curb and spitting out blood from where he’d bitten his tongue. His cheeks are embedded with grit and gravel and broken glass.

There is a pressure on his lower back, whether it’s a knee or a boot Grantaire can’t tell.

If Enjolras hasn’t used this opportunity to shut up and get out of there then Grantaire is personally going to- he can’t think what he’ll do to Enjolras, because his head is still clearing from the electric fog in his brain, but he’ll make Enjolras regret it.

But when Grantaire is dragged upwards, of course there is Enjolras, hair wild in and outfit splashed with paint and shards of glass. He looks like he could be on fire, pushing and directing people out of the reach of the police, but not getting out of there himself. But he’s stopped talking.

There is a hand in Grantaire’s hair forcing him to look down as he’s shoved in the direction of the run of police vans serving as temporary prisons, but he fights it to catch Enjolras’ eye. 

For a fraction of a second there is no hint of recognition in Enjolras’ eyes, as though he was looking upon a stranger, but then he sees Grantaire and the righteous fury that Grantaire has come to expect directly towards him is back.

It’s almost comforting.

Enjolras is spitting with rage, venomous beauty out of every pore, not pressing forwards towards him, because the man has some sense of self-preservation, but still he shouts 

“What were you thinking Grantaire? Why on earth would you do something so monumentally stupid?”

And Grantaire smiles.

“Couldn’t let a pretty face like yours get tasered now could I?”

He’s shoved so hard that he staggers, feet tripping up over the uneven streets, and the only thing that stops his falling is the tight grasp of the police officer’s hand in his messy curls. His hoody is digging into his neck and he’s finding it hard to breathe.

And then Bahorel breaks the human police barrier.

Protesters come flooding out of the breach in the chain, like a tidal wave escaping a dam, and Grantaire has no choice but to run with them. The hand of justice has loosened its grip on his unwashed curls enough that he can pull himself free and then he runs, following the momentum of the crown. With his arms tied behind his back he is unsteady, and his shoulders ache, but he knows that he cannot stop, not now that he has started to run.

He cannot see any of Les Amis, although he thinks that he hears Combeferre shout, and possibility Feuilly’s reply, but their faces and voices are still masked in cloth so Grantaire continues to run. He knows these streets well, and eventually his feet will lead him somewhere safe. Or at least somewhere else.

There is always somewhere else in Paris.

Out of the crowd there come down hands on his shoulders, from behind and just as he goes to buck them off and to put on a burst of speed, the fingers tighten and begin to steer him. He cannot turn to see who is guiding him without risking falling, so he mutters his thanks to the hand on his shoulder without turning to look at his guide.

It’s the first time that he hasn’t noticed every moment of Enjolras’ attention in exquisite detail.

When the crowd has begun to thin Grantaire feels himself shoved into a snicket, face brushing the wall while his unknown saviour and assailant lets go of his shoulder and grabs at his bound hands. There is hissing, and the rough scrape of metal against Grantaire’s wrist, but then his hands are free and he turns to face Enjolras who has in his hands his door keys and the cable tie which had been cutting off the circulation in Grantaire’s hands.

“We go to Combeferre’s.”

They always make sure to have a bolt-hole that they can escape to when the worst happens. Grantaire has no way of knowing who else will be joining them there, and Enjolras does not speak to him, as they run. Enjolras outpaces Grantaire, who is still vaguely dizzy, running off adrenaline and fear, but it doesn’t matter. He knows the way.

The conversation that Grantaire walks in on, when he arrives at Combeferre’s only a minute behind Enjolras, is hushed, and obviously about him. He makes no attempt to enter quietly, but still the conversation continues around him, hushed.

“He’s a fugitive.”

One of the lenses of Combeferre’s glasses has a faint hairline crack down the centre of it, and Grantaire watches the sparkle in his expression through the broken glass.

“He’s not the only one, there’s a price on your head too Enjolras.”

Enjolras is leaning in, ignoring the rest of Les Amis in the room- Grantaire notes Éponine, which surely means that Gavroche is safe or else she would be stalking the streets for him or raging with bloodied fists, Feuilly and Bossuet standing together. Normally their gatherings after the fires of rebellion have been stoked are fewer in number.

“But that’s not what this is about, this is about him.”

The stinging sensation in Grantaire’s neck has returned, and as he places a hand upon the crook of his neck there comes a raucous laugh and a pair of arms flung around his shoulders. He has to laugh, Courfeyrac expounds laughter. And there is Joly pushing past him, urgent but smiling.

“What do you mean Enjolras? It’s about Grantaire? Our Grantaire, who only came along because-”

Grantaire’s elbow in Courfeyrac’s ribs is enough to make him quiet, and Courfeyrac lets him go with a huff.

The atmosphere is jovial, even as it is serious, and Grantaire leans his way into the background of the tableau. Watching the action unfold, much as he had earlier in the day.

Joly stands at Combeferre’s sink, shirt off as he tries to wash away the faintly stained word ‘Medic’ from his shoulders with steady hands, mumbling under his breath about ink poisoning.

Feuilly and Bossuet are sat together, fingers flying over the keypads of laptops and mobile phones, and neither of them looks too badly injured nor too disheartened by the events of the day. When one of the four phones dotted between them buzzes Feuilly’s face breaks into a grin, and he turns his head to face Combeferre and Enjolras, interrupting their eye contact with Bahorel’s name. The smile spreads.

Éponine is sat, with a handkerchief pressed against the cut at her forehead, but she’s smiling despite the blood and Grantaire know that she’s had a good time regardless.

It’s Courfeyrac who brings the conversation back to Grantaire’s slumped form.

“So, what did you do R?”

It is Enjolras who answers, stepping forward, face fuming. Although he is answering Courfeyrac’s question he is staring Grantaire full in the face.

“He punched a police officer in the face, unprovoked.”

Courfeyrac looks shocked, but there’s also a hint of pride in his eyes.

Grantaire can’t look away from Enjolras however, and doesn’t see the raw affection that passes through Les Amis.

He’s often angry with Enjolras, standing opposed to his ideals and his hopeless optimism, but perhaps it is the spare electricity still racing through him that allows him to stand toe-to-toe with Enjolras on the matter of Enjolras himself.

“Well I had to do something.”

Grantaire has pushed beyond the wall he was leant against and has stepped towards Enjolras, not enough to push into his personal space, but enough to make himself clearly defined from what has come before.

“And why was that, pray tell, you’ve never had the need to do anything in our presence before.”

Enjolras has frozen in his anger, hands balling into fists at his sides.

Grantaire can barely believe that they are having this conversation here, that they are having this conversation at all. Enjolras is many things, but the man is no fool, and he would have known what he was inviting to happen when he wouldn’t step down.

“They were going to taser you to make you shut up.”

The only anger in Enjolras is directed towards Grantaire in the here and now, there isn’t even a passing glance for what could have happened, even though there is still broken glass shining out of Enjolras’ hair.

Grantaire’s face is bleeding.

“I could have handled them.”

The room has fallen silent, with only Bossuet with his eyes cast down- focused on the live feed of the news, to see if he can spot any of their companions in the remaining crowds, and waiting for the sign that they can decamp themselves from Combeferre’s apartment– and they listen.

The good-humoured atmosphere of moments ago, made up of endorphins and temporary freedom has bubbled over into tension, and not even Combeferre steps forward to ease the situation.

Better to have it here, contained and safe than to keep it boiling below the surface.

“But you shouldn’t have to.”

Enjolras didn’t move, but something changed in his eyes and in his voice when he eventually replied.

“I won’t have you of all people insinuating that I’m weak Grantaire.”

Enjolras shakes shards of glass out of his hair and off his shoulders with his words and he has caught Grantaire in a stare that would trap a lesser man.

Grantaire doesn’t know how he’s able to escape Enjolras’ gaze until he remembers the electricity under his skin.

“That wasn’t, I- you’re beyond hope aren’t you Enjolras? You just don’t know how to understand. Fine, see if I’ll be so pleased to put my neck out on the line for you again.”

Grantaire flies forward, stepping into the centre of the room with all eyes on him and reaches towards his own neck, grabbing the collar of his jacket down he twists, exposing his neck to the watching Les Amis.

There is a mark against the pale of his throat, which could at first glance be mistaken for a love bite, but they all know that it’s far more meaningful than that.

No one can keep Grantaire’s roving gaze, not even Enjolras.

With a huff of a laugh Grantaire presses his thumb into the mark and settles his hoodie back into position. For a fraction of a second he waits, to see if anyone will parry and riposte, but the room stays silent.

Grantaire knows were Combeferre keeps the alcohol, and no one tries to stop him from leaving.

Enjolras is the first to move, sitting to perch on the arm of the sofa and looks over Bossuet’s shoulder to read the initial media write up of the protest.

Enjolras may be the first to move, but Combeferre is the first to respond.

“Just because your protest didn’t go the way you wanted it to there’s no reason to take it out on him.”

He doesn’t sound angry, but he is insistent, and Enjolras turns, acknowledging him.

“He doesn’t care for our cause and yet goes out of his way to cause himself the most harm and to us the most inconvenience. I will never understand how that man thinks.”

It is Éponine, still curled up on the chair -who hasn’t moved from her spot since she’s shooed Gavroche into Combeferre’s bedroom with her iPod- who sits up straighter and answers Enjolras.

“Enjolras-”

The thoughts behind her words are clamouring for escape, but after the turmoil of the day she doesn’t want to be harsh. She wants to be gentle, but firm. Jehan would say this better, but Jehan is probably still locked in the back of a police van, cold and still shouting for their cause. They have the money for bail Combeferre makes sure of it before any act of possible violence. Money is collected and saved, until it is needed. They all put in the same amount, although everyone knows Marius pays for Éponine and that Enjolras could, and often does double the float when he deems it necessary. Even Grantaire pays up his share, grumbling all the while. They have to wait before they can collect Jehan; they are all bruised and battered from the streets and would most likely be recognised. 

Marius and Cosette do not shout out respectability, but they speak of it quietly with their gentle touches to each other and their sweet smiles, and neither of them where in the streets with scarves covering their faces, and so once Paris has settled they will collect the fallen from the police.

But until then, Jehan isn’t here and the others look to Éponine to speak.

“We would all do anything that you ask, you know that Enjolras, but Grantaire would do the things that you would never ask of anyone, if only you’d permit him to. You know how stories talk of taking bullet for someone.” 

She doesn’t think of how she’s held Gavroche’s struggling form against her when the rallying masses surrounding them went savage. She doesn’t think of how she would have killed anyone who had touched him, police or protester both. She doesn’t think of how this is the safer environment for the two of them.

She doesn’t think of it.

“When you can’t think straight and you know that all you can do is to protect them. And then you ask why Grantaire stays.”

It’s not a fabulous speech, not up to the calibre of Enjolras at his finest and most passionate- shouting at the injustice of the world atop a graffitied bench- but it says what is necessary and says it well. Eyes flicker between Éponine and Enjolras, waiting to see if her words are heard.

Enjolras thinks of Grantaire, who’d shown no tendency towards street brawling until Enjolras had made himself a target.

Thinks of the way that he had momentarily yelled out Grantaire’s name as the man stood spasming and screaming, one man amid hundreds.

At how Grantaire had smiled at him, and called him pretty.

_Oh._

The room falls silent, as they watch Enjolras’ revelation.

They can hear Grantaire in the next room, and amid the clinking of the glass they cannot tell if he is laughing or crying.

**Author's Note:**

> Title comes from Oedipus the King (Robert Fagles translation), from the description of Dionysus as "lord of frenzy, lord of the barren peaks."


End file.
